


Cool My Desire (I'm on Fire)

by lforevermore



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Clint doesn't have a wife, Daddy Kink, First Time, M/M, but he does have a farm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 05:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4210329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lforevermore/pseuds/lforevermore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s like a firework, really. The whistle of a slow build-up, then the sudden boom of light and color and fire.<br/>--------</p><p>Clint’s not a cruel man, but he can’t help teasing a little. “You can do better than that,” he says, just to see if he can get Pietro to beg again.</p><p>Then, God help him, Pietro says, “Daddy, please.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cool My Desire (I'm on Fire)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote daddy kink in the middle of the night. Unbeta'd. Got a little wordy.
> 
> Follow at inmywildernesswriting.tumblr.com

Pietro survives by the skin of his teeth and the same medical team that had saved Phil Coulson (but Clint’s not supposed to know about that). He comes to days later and clings to his sister’s hand like he’s a drowning man – Wanda, for her part, cries and promises that nothing like this will ever happen again. Clint doesn’t tell her then, doesn’t have the heart to, that they’re Avengers, and Avengers are marked. None of them are leaving this life peacefully.

Still, he wants to make the same promise. They’re just kids, after all.

 

Clint goes back to his lonely farmhouse. There’s internet only because there has to be, or Natasha would think he was dead half the time, and shitty cell service that somehow never stops Nick from reaching him. It’s quiet save for the cicadas, and if Clint stands at the kitchen window, he can see fireflies dancing near the barn.

The kid took bullets meant for him.

He hopes they’re doing okay back at HQ.

 

The doorbell rings on a Saturday morning, when the birds are singing annoyingly and the sun is preventing Clint from sleep. Clint stumbles downstairs, dressed in only the pants he’d grabbed from a chair on his way down, and opens the door to blink at Steve Rogers and the Maximoff twins.

“Good morning,” Steve says.

Clint grunts and stands aside to let them in.

He makes coffee and eggs while they settle awkwardly at his kitchen table. He puts plates in front of Wanda and Pietro, and they just look at him for a moment before they dig in. Steve stands and jerks his head to the door while they’re engrossed in speaking with each other, and so Clint follows his fearless leader out to the hallway.

“They’ve been through a lot,” Steve says. “They need somewhere quiet for a little while. Especially Pietro.”

What Clint should say is no, this is his sanctuary, but Pietro took bullets meant for him, and Wanda strode out that door like she was ready for war. They’re just kids, his mind supplies.

“I’ve got the room,” is what Clint finally says.

 

Wanda takes to wandering the acreage and exploring the wooded areas around the farm. Once she discovers the horses (the ones that his neighbors kindly care for whenever he gets called in), it’s all over – she’s gone on the back of an even-tempered mare every morning after breakfast, and only shows up again around dinner if she likes what’s being served.

“She loved horses,” Pietro supplies. “When we were children.”

The thing is, Pietro’s always there. He’s all scruff and surfer-blond hair, grins that are a little too sharp at the edges to be genuine. This kid has seen more than Clint would ever want him to, and it’s evidenced by the fact that when Clint can’t sleep, he can find Pietro in the kitchen, staring out through the window and seeing things that aren’t really there.

Clint can relate.

 

He finds Pietro there one night, halfway shaken out of his mind. Clint’s not in much better shape, keeps checking mirrors to see if his eyes have gone icy. Wanda’s either asleep or giving her brother space.

Clint’s tired of being haunted.

He claps a hand on Pietro’s shoulder, making sure that Pietro can hear him coming before he does. “Come on,” he says, and grabs a blanket off the back of the couch. He slips his boots on but doesn’t bother to tie them – they won’t be going far.

Pietro follows in confused silence as Clint leads him outside to where the fireflies danced by the barn in the early evening. They’re nowhere to be found now – there’s just the light from the porch and the millions of stars above them, unrestrained by city lights.

Clint spreads the blanket and lays down, pats the area beside him, and waits. After a moment, Pietro sits, and then lays, folds his arms behind his head. They stare up at the sky, side by side, and Clint starts counting the stars.

“Sometimes I still feel the bullets,” Pietro says, barely audible above the cicadas. Clint reaches out to place a comforting hand on Pietro’s shoulder, and the kid doesn’t shake him off.

 

It becomes a tradition, of sorts. One of them finds the other in the kitchen in the middle of the night, and then they end up side by side under the stars. It graduates from merely sharing a blanket to Clint’s arm under Pietro’s head when they wake in the early morning hours.

Pietro curls toward Clint when he sleeps, like he’s aching for someone, anyone, to hold him.

Once, in the early morning when the sun is just rising and Pietro is asleep, Clint finds his courage. “Sometimes I still hear Loki in my mind,” he confesses.

Pietro’s not as out as he thinks, Clint realizes when a hand reaches up to grasp his.

 

It escalates.

Pietro brushes him when they pass each other in the kitchen. He watches when Clint tills the little garden outside, shirtless and sweaty. He curls into Clint when they lay on the blanket in the middle of the night, sits next to Clint even though there’re three different armchairs in the living room. He brings Clint lemonade while he’s fixing the fence.

Clint, for his part, doesn’t discourage it. Instead, he meets Pietro’s gaze head on when he’s watching. He puts his hand on the small of Pietro’s back when he moves around him to get a mug out of the cabinet. He strokes Pietro’s hair when he’s only halfway sure that the kid’s asleep on the blanket.

Wanda starts giving them _looks_ , like she knows something they don’t. She watches Clint every time he’s watching Pietro watch him, and then she smirks before she disappears on the back of the mare she’s affectionately named Gem.

It escalates, and Clint has no excuses.

 

Whatever there is between them comes to a head late one night. They’re on the blanket, sides pressed together and Clint’s arm beneath Pietro’s head. Pietro’s wearing Clint’s flannel overshirt – it’s too broad for him, stretched by Clint’s shoulders. He’s not looking at the stars, Clint knows. His gaze is somewhere on Clint’s threadbare tee, and his hand is resting on Clint’s abdomen like it’s supposed to be there, like it’s always been there.

Clint doesn’t shake him off.

Slowly, the hand on Clint’s abdomen starts tracing, drawing circles and meaningless paths up and down, teasing at the little bit of skin that’s there between the shirt and Clint’s pajama bottoms.

“What are you doing, kid?” Clint asks, softly.

Pietro’s reply is a hesitant press of lips, over as soon as it starts. “I don’t know,” he says. “I just…”

Clint rolls, takes Pietro’s face in his hands, and cuts him off with a kiss.

 

From there, it just escalates further. They no longer look at the stars, they look at each other, lazily kissing and pressing close together. Clint feels like he’s twenty-three again, with all the time in the world and no one to answer to when Pietro sidles up next to him and starts batting those long lashes at him.

(He feels a little guilty – Pietro is so much younger than him, after all).

It’s inevitable, he supposes, when he feels Pietro’s hardness against the length of his leg one night. It’s unavoidable, like a runaway train that’s headed straight for him.

Clint slides his hands down, nice and slow, and slips one into Pietro’s pants. Pietro gasps so prettily in his grip, and Clint works him over until he’s shaking apart, clutching at Clint’s shoulders like his life depends on it, like he’s hanging from a cliff and Clint is the only thing that can save him.

That night, Clint learns that Pietro’s refractory period is also pretty damn quick.

 

It’s like a firework, really. The whistle of a slow build-up, then the sudden boom of light and color and fire.

 

Pietro is laid out on the blanket, face turned to the stars. He’s wearing Clint’s flannel shirt, and only Clint’s flannel shirt, long, pale legs spread so that Clint can rest between them, lazily licking and sucking at Pietro’s cock. Pietro fists his hands in the blanket, and Clint could purr in satisfaction – they’ve had the talk about pulling Clint’s hair. He’s glad to know it stuck.

He’s teasing Pietro, won’t suck for long enough to get him off, pulls back to mouth at his thigh and leave little bites and nips there. He wants to mark every inch of the boy, from the column of his throat to calves wrapped around him.

“Please,” Pietro finally begs.

Clint’s not a cruel man, but he can’t help teasing a little. “You can do better than that,” he says, just to see if he can get Pietro to beg again.

Then, God help him, Pietro says, “Daddy, please.”

Clint groans – zero to sixty in a second, a kink he didn’t even know he had. “Say it again,” he murmurs against the skin of Pietro’s thigh.

Pietro grins, breathless. “Daddy, _please_.”

Clint sucks him so hard he sees stars – millions of them, high above.

 

(He feels guilty, like he’s taking advantage of the kid. But Wanda keeps smirking, and Pietro helps himself to Clint’s clothes, so Clint dismisses the guilt as unnecessary.)

 

Two fingers deep has Pietro squirming, cock hanging heavy between his legs. The moon is drowning out the stars tonight, Clint thinks as he leans forward to bite at Pietro’s ass, twisting his fingers as he does. Pietro lets out a sharp moan, like it’s a surprise ripped from him, and Clint takes advantage of the shock of pleasure to add a third finger.

“Fuck,” Pietro swears, rocks back onto Clint’s fingers. “Daddy.”

Clint curls his fingers, just to watch Pietro arch, pale skin in the moonlight, blond hair practically glowing, ethereal. It’s a sight for the silver screen, Clint thinks – he doesn’t fucking deserve this.

“Daddy,” Pietro says again. “Daddy, _fuck me_.”

Pietro’s bossy, but Clint can’t bring himself to curb it – the kid’s had people controlling him his whole life, Clint can ease up here. He does smirk and twist his fingers again to draw a gasped moan from him before he pulls his hand away and slicks up his own cock.

He works his way in slow, listens to the hitch in Pietro’s breathing. He’s sure that Pietro’s never gone this far before, sure that Clint is the first to draw this out of him, these gasps and moans and sighs, the way that Pietro twists and curls to chase pleasure. It’s heady, to say the least.

Clint keeps his pace slow and steady – Pietro is always moving too fast, he says, and the way that Pietro is rocking back into him says that Clint’s made a good choice. Clint fucks him, the first one to, wraps an arm around his chest to hold him up when his arms threaten to give out. He wrings an orgasm from Pietro with a few strokes and fucks him through a second.

“Please,” Pietro begs. Clint’s not sure he knows what he’s begging for.

“Please what?”

“Please, Daddy,” Pietro corrects.

Clint leans down, bites at Pietro’s shoulder and picks up the pace a little, fucking into him with deep strokes. Pietro tosses his head back, clutches at the ground and the blanket beneath them.

“Daddy,” Pietro says again, breathless. “Come, please, I want… I want you to come inside me.”

Clint can’t argue with that kind of request. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he says, low and rough. He gets a grip on Pietro’s hip and hauls him back, so that Pietro is straddling his legs and can loll his head back against Clint’s shoulder. Clint fucks up, rolls his hips and chases his own orgasm.

Pietro mumbles something that Clint doesn’t catch, something in a language he doesn’t speak, and clutches at Clint’s arm, holds on for dear life.

“Am I the first?” Clint asks. He’s close, so fucking close, but he needs to hear Pietro say it.

“Yes,” Pietro breathes. “Yes, Daddy.”

Clint comes with a groan, drags Pietro down and grinds, tilts his head back to the stars.

 

After, they lay together in a heap of sweat-sticky skin. The summer night is warm, covering them like a blanket fresh from the dryer. Clint strokes Pietro’s back, takes note of all of the marks he left – one on his neck that he can see, scratches down his back.

Pietro plucks at the blanket and wrinkles his nose. “We need to wash this,” he says. “By ‘we,’ I mean you.”

“I figured,” Clint replies. “Won’t have anything to lay on ‘til I do, though.”

Pietro hesitates, then visibly gathers his courage. “You could always take me to bed,” he says, soft.

Clint looks at him. The blanket is almost symbolic, after all. Maybe it’s time to move on from what’s in his mind and into the real world.

He tilts his head back – millions and billions of stars above him. “Yeah,” he says. “I think I will.”


End file.
